


Always Dutiful

by MaidenOfTheVale



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaidenOfTheVale/pseuds/MaidenOfTheVale
Summary: Rhaelle Targaryen has always done her duty. She is the one who keeps her promises, who never breaks her word, who will always choose stability over freedom. And Rhaelle is being shipped off to some stranger, to people who hate her family for breaking a betrothal. She must be strong, but she also hopes, always hopes that they will see she is not like her family. That where her family is fire, exciting and bright and hard to control, she is the earth, immutable and nourishing.
Relationships: Ormund Baratheon/Rhaelle Targaryen
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

Rhaelle is 12 years old and she is angry. She knows she shouldn’t be, knows that Duncan is sorry and she has always been gracious and forgiving. She knows it because he had come to her and apologized a thousand times and she had given him a smile and a hug, but she is still angry. Perhaps it is not with her brother but her father. Her father, who is selling her for the sake of peace. Or herself, for never stopping to wish for freedom over stability.  
  
She is the dutiful one, not like Duncan, who laughs and loves so freely, or Shaera, who wants more from life and refuses to give up her desires, or Jaehaerys, who had never cared what others thought, or even Daeron, who she loves dearly but would choose love over duty any day. Her father must have known she would never say no when he had asked her about the betrothal. She did not wish to leave home, but she had only nodded, the realm needed peace and no one else could provide it.  
  
Her mother had once told her that she was stable, “Sweetling, sometimes I think you are the only thing keeping the world right side up.” She had said. Duncan and Jaehaerys had been arguing and Shaera screaming, fighting for her voice to be heard, while Daeron was off with Jeremy like always, laughing as hard as anyone. It had been Rhaelle who had stood up and quieted them, telling them that it was unbecoming of princes and that they should act properly. She had been only eight years old and even then, dutiful and proper.  
  
She wonders now if she should’ve been wild. Would Duncan have run off with Jenny if she had not been there to take the fall?  
  
Would her father have found some better way to settle the dispute if she had not always done as she was told?  
  
House Baratheon is famous for their anger, descended from the Durrandons who had fought the gods themselves. And they are angry still, angry with me or at least my house, she thinks despairingly.  
  
Will they know that I am not my brother? Or will they see no difference between the two dragons and punish her for her brother’s mistake?  
  
She prays that her betrothed at least is kind. She doesn't care if he is handsome, but she doesn't know if she can weather cruelty. He is not Lyonel’s son, but his late brother’s. Ormund is his name and she rolls it over her tongue in an attempt to get used to saying it.  
  
Her father had given her a year in King’s Landing, negotiated for it with Lyonel, who is almost seven feet tall and called the Laughing Storm though he had not laughed much in the company of her father and had looked at Duncan as though he was scum at the bottom of his boot. They had agreed that she would come to Storm’s End in 281, when things had settled more. It had seemed a long enough time to say goodbye, but now she cannot help but think of all that she was leaving behind. Her septa, who had been with her since she was only three years old, was staying behind. And she will probably not see her brothers and sister for years after what has happened.  
  
Shaera and Jaehaerys had wed in secret during her last year in King’s Landing and thought themselves like Targaryens of old. She remembers the anguish on her mother's face when they had announced their marriage so proudly.  
  
She was born a Blackwood as she often told her children and had hated and feared the tradition of Targaryen incest in almost equal measure. Yet she will miss them all the same.  
  
And she will miss Duncan too, though it is his fault she has been sent away. She will miss his bone crushing hugs and the way he talked with everyone he saw.  
  
Most of all though, she will miss Daeron. Daeron, who wants to go on adventures but has never begrudged her wishes for a quiet life. Daeron, who had run around the Red Keep with her and had given her a million piggybacks. She will miss them all, but none so much as Daeron.  
  
And she might not see father and mother until her wedding. For they rule the Seven Kingdoms and with the Tullys and Tyrells so angry, they will likely be busier than ever. She is doing her part for peace and they must do theirs.  
  
She is supposed to arrive at Storm’s End on the morrow and from the tales she has heard of its height and grandeur it should be impossible to miss.  
  
She is riding in the wheelhouse, contemplating whether Storm’s End could possibly live up to its reputation when she hears a gasp and a shout for her to come look. One of the knights of the Kingsguard, Jason Hightower, smiled at her when she stepped outside.  
  
“Your new home, your highness.” He gestures to a tower that seems to touch the sky itself coming into view in the distance. It is surrounded by giant walls and seemed as harsh and unforgiving as the storms said to torment it.  
  
It had withstood years upon years in the brutal Stormlands. And so shall I, she told herself as she looked upon the castle that she would one day rule.


	2. Chapter 2

RHAELLE  
Her arrival at Storm’s End occurs just as a storm begins to form on the horizon of Shipbreaker Bay. She thinks it might be an omen, but she is unsure of what it foretells. 

Lord Baratheon has ridden out to meet them with three hooded figures, two women and a man flanking him. As he dismounts his horse, she does the same, accepting the help of Ser Jason. 

“Lord Baratheon,” She curtsied delicately, “It is an honor to see you again.”

“Please, my princess,” His voice was booming, but it was the way he looked at her, appraising, that made her feel frozen, “The honor is entirely our own.”

One of the women behind him let out a bark of laughter at that. When she removes her hood, Rhaelle knows why. Her eyes are bright and blue, her hair as black as coal. This can be no other woman, but Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, the woman meant to marry her own brother.

She stands tall and strong, having dismounted her horse without a hand to help. There is nothing delicate about her and Rhaelle thinks for a moment that she looks as though a storm has taken human form. 

“Princess Rhaelle, sent to us, what a gracious boon your father has bestowed to our humble family.” She spits out the words like venom. A better boon would have been the crown prince, her tone seems to say, for she would have been queen if Duncan had kept his word. And what is a princess for a lady if not a consolation prize. Not a very good one, Rhaelle thinks sadly.

“My nephew and heir, Ormund Baratheon,” He gestures to the man who flanks him, “Your betrothed.”

But when he removes his hood, she sees that he is not a man yet, not anymore than she is a woman. He has hair as black as his cousin’s, clear blue eyes, and a sad look. He is younger than Jocelyn too, four and ten, she remembers, but already taller. At least they are of age. If he had not existed, she might have wed Lord Lyonel, who is seven and forty, four times her age and already wed once. She is glad that Ormund was born and perhaps that is a start.

“Princess Rhaelle,” He says and she almost starts, lost in her own thoughts, “I am honored to meet you and hope that our betrothal will be a happy one.”

She extends her hand, knowing the courtesies well, and his lips only touch her knuckles for a second, “As am I, my lord.” She says with a practiced smile, “I share your hopes and I am very happy to see Storm’s End for the first time.”

“My lady mother, Shireen Swann,” He inclines his head with a smile to the woman standing beside him. She is a beautiful woman, Rhaelle thinks, with chestnut curls and dark brown eyes. 

She has been a widow for a decade now, Rhaelle remembers. Her husband had been Steffon Baratheon, Ormund’s younger brother. He had died of a bad belly, Johanna Buckler, her lady in waiting, had told her. She wore her hair in three braids with long streaks of hair loose. Rhaelle supposed that when one had been a widow so long, they must tire of a widow’s knot. It is a sobering thought. 

She hopes she must never become a widow. And that is another thing in Ormund’s favor already, Laena had told her that she had wished her betrothed dead every night for a year. And when it had come to pass, Laena had been joyful, though that was not proper and she had worn mourning colors and stayed quiet as custom dictated. 

Laena is seven and ten and a lady of House Velaryon. She has more stories than any of Rhaelle’s other ladies and is the eldest too. This means that she is the one who commands their attention, though as a princess, that should be Rhaelle’s job. Rhaelle does not mind though, she has always been content to let others shine while she remains close, illuminated by their light.

She thinks it is a trait she might share with Ormund, whose voice is quieter than his fathers and who seems to be forcing a smile with those sad eyes of his, unlike his cousin who moves as though her every step might shatter the world and she does not care. 

His mother is shrewd and does not find it so easy to fade into the background, Rhaelle suspects, for those dark eyes of hers seem to be searching for something in Rhaelle’s own.

“It is my pleasure to welcome you to Storm’s End.” Lady Shireen’s voice is low and precise, “We must ride in before the storms come though.” She raises an eyebrow and turns to look at Lyonel, “Tis a good omen, I think. Us Stormlanders are wary of those who bring sunshine.” 

“I do not think we trust that they can withstand our home. Perhaps that is it.” Ormund suggests, looking at his mother with admiration.

Lyonel gives a nod at that but echoes the words of Lady Shireen, saying that they will ride back now. He remounts his horse with the ease of a soldier. Everyone else mimics him, so Rhaelle takes the horse offered to her and does the same with help from a guard. 

Just as they prepare to trot off, Rhaelle feels the touch of a raindrop against her cheek. It slides down her face and is joined by more warm water, it is like the sky itself is weeping, Rhaelle thinks.

Jocelyn turns her face up to the sky and laughs, a joyous sound escaping from her throat that seems to fill the air. As the rain pours down, warm on their skin, the others echo Jocelyn, Ormund’s laugh seems to shake his body, while Lyonel’s spreads like wildfire, and Shireen’s is as sharp as her voice but higher. And perhaps it is Elenei, whose spirit is said to linger near Storm’s End, but Rhaelle giggles too and before she knows it, everyone is laughing at the rain, eyes shining, turned up to the sky.

ORMUND 

She is not what he had been expecting, this Targaryen princess he was being forced to wed. He had expected fire and anger, emotion of some kind, but she had seemed almost doll-like, courteous and delicate with a quiet voice and inquiring eyes. And he had wondered if there was anything behind them.

He does not think he likes her very much. And perhaps that is wrong for she has been nothing but polite and courteous, but when he sees her, he can only think of Jena. Jena, who he had kissed for the first time when he was only ten, Jena, who was brave and bright, Jena, who he should’ve been marrying.

He had met Jena for the first time when they were seven years old. Jocelyn was betrothed to the crown prince then, when the dragons’ word had still meant something. She had been eleven then and telling everyone she met how she would one day be queen. He wonders if that is the true source of her bitterness, being proven a liar by the actions of another, passed over by a prince in favor of Jenny Mudd. They sing songs about it now, Ormund knows. He wonders if they would sound half so pretty if Jocelyn was in them. Jocelyn had raged when they had agreed to send Rhaelle to Storm’s End, had thought it no true reward and no true justice.

Ormund is inclined to agree. What justice is there in stealing his love away and replacing it with some stranger because some prince had broken vows? 

The betrothal had been unofficial, but all the lords and ladies of the Stormlands had known of it. Jena Estermont would be their lady. She should be their lady, he thought bitterly. Jena had plans and ideas. She was going to build ships and create a port. What will this princess of mine do? Will she only smile prettily and simply stand at my side? He pondered.

The day Jena had heard of his betrothal to the princess, she had cried. Jena never cries, but she had that day. She had wept and shook with rage and sadness, and when she looked up, there was madness in her eyes, “Marry me in the sept before they bring her, marry me tonight as Durran wed Elenei.” Her voice was desperate, “He defied the gods themselves, but you do not need to deny the gods, only your father and the king.”

She had said it as if defying the king was some small task, and had asked him, “Why must you keep your father’s word when theirs means nothing?” She had been moving through her chambers with manic energy, pacing like a lion locked in a cage.

“My father’s word means something.” He had gone to her and clasped her hands, vibrating with electricity, “I cannot break it.” 

And then she had known. Her hands had gone still and she had asked him to leave. The next week, she had gone.

What is this princess if not a poor replacement for the woman he should have wed? 

She is beautiful, he admits, with silver gold hair, high cheekbones, and eyes so dark they’re almost black. But she also strikes him as empty, some hollow figure that will do whatever is asked of her. He thinks he would like her more if she was just more, more of anything at all. She does not seem to hate this betrothal, but neither does she love it. He does not know if she feels anything at all. 

The most emotion he had seen her show in the fortnight since she had come to Storm’s End had been at their first meeting. It had rained and she had laughed with the rest of them, a high musical sound, and he had felt a glimmer of hope. But she had not laughed since and did not seem inclined too.

He watches her, trying to figure her out. She is a princess, the youngest of all her siblings and from what he’s heard, her mother’s darling. She should be brighter, should take up more space in a room, but she seems content to observe as others do instead, letting her ladies in waiting shine in her place. He should not begrudge her that, he knows, for he is the same way. He had grown up with Lyonel, who tells stories like the whole world is listening, alongside Jocelyn, who has never kept an opinion to herself, with Jena, who could fill every room she entered. He is used to being the quiet one, the one that listens as others talk. It is what he had expected to be to this princess, but he worries now that their marriage will be silent. That neither will know how to speak and that they will choke on their words as they try to force them out. He worries that they will be dreadfully unhappy. 

He hopes that it will not be so, and so he walks to her and offers her his hand and a walk. If their marriage is to be happy, they should start now, he says, his voice too quiet, but the princess gives a small nod.

Their walk is quiet, but he sees her smile at a garden as she passes, and each time she sees a flower she does not know, she points it out with a raised eyebrow and he tells her what he knows. 

It is a start.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The first three moons of Rhaelle’s stay at Storm’s End are marked by endless storms. Everyone Rhaelle has spoken to has proposed a different theory. Storms are commonplace here. It is what gave the lands their name, but usually there are lulls in between. These storms are relentless, letting no ships in.

Shireen believes that it is Durran and Elenei, she calls it a lovers quarrel. Laena later whispers that maybe they’re fucking. She even says the word and Rhaelle thinks it’s outrageous, but that’s just how Laena is. Elinor Seaglass, who had grown up with Laena on Dragonstone, tells Rhaelle that Laena is always trying to get a reaction. 

She says that the explanation for the storms is not a magical one, says that magic does not live in this world anymore, and it is simply the nature of the world causing those storms. Elinor is always playing the skeptic to Laena’s believer, though Laena always believes the best story. Rhaelle thinks that if Elinor had been born a man, she might have been a maester.

Jocelyn thinks the storms plague Shipbreaker Bay because the gods are showing their support for the Baratheons against the Targaryen betrayal. Rhaelle avoids Jocelyn most of the time; Jocelyn is angry in a way Rhaelle can almost recognize. Saera is perpetually angry, perpetually longing for the power that she would have if she had been born a man. There is something almost nostalgic about spending time with her, but Rhaelle knows Jocelyn resents her presence.

Ormund tells her that Jocelyn will move on from her grudge against Rhaelle eventually while they are walking the stairs of Storm’s End. Rhaelle still does not know all of the castle. It is taller than it is wide and the main tower juts high into the sky.

“She is angry at being humiliated. Having a common girl chosen over her.” He gives her a sympathetic look, “She will likely never forgive your brother, but Jocelyn is not unreasonable. She understands that you are not responsible, but you are the best person to blame.” 

It does not feel like that though. Rhaelle feels Jocelyn’s anger whenever they are together. She knows that there are discussions of a new possible marriage for Jocelyn and hopes that whoever her husband is, he will be able to weather her storm. “Have discussions of her betrothal continued?” Rhaelle asks. She has spent her whole life asking questions of lords and ladies politely. At that, she is practiced even if she is still uncomfortable with her betrothed.

“Yes, final decisions have yet to be reached, but my uncle believes the best choices to be either Lord Mors Martell or Lord Edmure Tully.”

“Jocelyn would likely be happy in Dorne.” Rhaelle smiles at the thought. Loreza Martell, Prince Mors’s young daughter, had visited the court and had been as striking and clever as a viper. The Dornish women that came to court were bold and Loreza had clearly loved and admired her father. She had been shocked that Shaera and Rhaelle didn’t receive the same education as their brothers. Rhaelle still remembers how Shaera had tried to push to be included after that, though her attempts were unsuccessful. Mors wasn't too much older than Jocelyn either. Jocelyn was 20 and Mors only 27. And most importantly, Mors was a prince. Lyonel would want that, especially since Jocelyn would never become queen.

“Though I’m sure Lord Edmure would make a good husband as well.” Rhaelle makes sure to add. Edmure is a year younger than Mors and whenever he came to court, he was always very kind. But he is also rather dull for Jocelyn, who is so exciting and bright. 

“I’ve never met Lord Edmure.” Ormund says in the politely formal tone the conversation has taken on as they enter what would be Rhaelle’s solar. “I’m sure my lord uncle would appreciate your input on Jocelyn’s betrothal, though.” 

After conversing for a minute or two more, they part ways and Rhaelle goes to her chambers where she adds qualities to the list of reasons Ormund will be good as a husband.

Rhaelle likes the way Ormund speaks. He is always even toned and never raises his voice. She likes that he tries to fill the silence even though she can tell his nature is more internal.

It is strange how different he is from his uncle and mother. She supposes she should not think that considering her differences from her own family, but it still shocks her.

Lady Shireen is deeply superstitious; she was born a Swann and it was often said that they would never act if there were not a thousand signs lighting the way. She worships gods that aren’t found in a sept nor a godswood. Rhaelle knows that they are the gods of nature, the sky and sea, to Shireen. Not many in the Stormlands have maintained their beliefs since being conquered but Shireen never seems anything but certain.

Ormund is not like that. He seems unsure if any gods exist at all, though he occasionally prays with his mother. He does not seem completely certain of anything and seems to listen and accept any and all beliefs. Rhaelle thinks that is good to some extent. After all, he should not alienate any off his people, but he does not appear to question anything at all. 

Rhaelle was raised in the light of the Seven. It feels like sacrilege to worship another god, any god but them. She knows that is silly, especially since her own mother worships the old gods, but Rhaelle has never felt holiness in a godswood. She feels the gods in septs, no matter how rundown. Rhaelle hopes Ormund believes in the Seven alongside his mother’s gods. She had once dreamed of a husband who sang hymns by her side and held the Mother in just as great regard as the Warrior.

Rhaelle’s ladies await her in the chambers. She had traveled here with a few of them and daughters from around the Stormlands had trickled in as the moons passed. Rhaelle smiles at them as she enters and they rise. 

“I wish to visit the Sept, my ladies.” Rhaelle looks toward Septa Alys at that. 

“Your piety is admirable, Princess.” Septa Alys compliments. The septa is a pretty woman, not young and not old either, with long curling blonde hair that she ties in a braided knot. She has a soft jawline but a long sharp nose that looks as though it could sniff out anything. Rhaelle likes her well enough but she misses her old Septa, Dyanna had been old with hair turning brown to gray, but her smile had been sweet and she had been the one to teach Rhaelle the hymns of the Seven.

“Are we all to accompany you, Princess?” Lady Sara Wylde’s voice is soft and polite. She is young, only ten years old, and wide eyed at being in the company of a princess.

“Yes, I would like that.” Rhaelle tries to give an encouraging smile, but it is almost forced. “And you can all just call me Rhaelle.”

“Of course, Princess.”

“You’ll be with me for years, I’m sure we’ll all become very good friends. You can call me by my name.”

“Rhaelle.” Laena says, showing off her confidence, “I would be thrilled to be your good friend.”

She even gives a small wink.

“We should visit the sept now. In an hour, services for the smallfolk begin.” It is Lora Connington who speaks. 

“I should meet the people of the Stormlands. I will be their lady one day after all. Perhaps, I could pray by their side.”

Prayer builds community in a way nothing else does. Rhaelle thinks that she may find some kinship with these people. And this means that she can see the sept as it is meant to be seen, full with people illuminated by the light of the Seven. She had visited each night when the sept was thinly populated, but this might be different.

“Do you think Lord Ormund would accompany me, Lora?” Lora had been at Storm’s End for two years before Rhaelle’s arrival. Rhaelle knows that she doesn’t really know Ormund yet though she has been trying to. 

“I’m sure he would. He is not quite as pious as you but he visits the sept when he can.” Lora’s brow furrows, “He has not visited services for almost a fortnight though. He used to attend more often when Je-“ she stutters for a moment, “before the rebellion, I mean.”

She means something else, Rhaelle knows that, of course she does. Sometimes Rhaelle feels like there’s some presence in this castle, something that no one will talk about or acknowledge, but everyone feels. It’s the same thing that always lies between her and Ormund. Rhaelle does not know what it is and she is not sure she wants to. What she does not know cannot hurt her and Rhaelle does not wish to be hurt.

“We will go to the sept for prayer then. One of the servants can ask Ormund to attend.” Rhaelle wants to leave then, wants for someone else to speak, but everyone is staring at her. She feels almost suffocated, she has never been good at occupying attention. 

“Until then, we could practice embroidery, Princess.” It is little Sera Wylde, “I have a handkerchief I could show you. And you could embroider your favor to give Ormund.” The girl’s eyes are wide and bright at the romance of it all.

“Yes, that sounds lovely to me.” Rhaelle looks around for a moment. “Laena, what are you going to be making?”

Laena talks of hair silks and tells wild stories as the girls sew. Rhaelle falls back into the background, embroidering a stag’s antlers in golden thread across a black fabric as the chitter chatter surrounds her. She likes this. It reminds her of home where she was surrounded by ladies and lordlings.

The time passes quickly with sewing and stories before Septa Alys commands the attention of the room for them to head to the sept.

The sept is lovely, though different from King’s Landing. The Stormlands hold the Stranger in high regard, a guide for their dead, and so as one enters, they must look the statue in the eye. It is carved from dark ebony wood, shining and smooth. The Stranger is a beautiful young woman here, fallen to her knees yet looking forward with an outreached hand. 

Rhaelle looks into the carved eyes of the Stranger, the guide between life and death and says a soft prayer for her own life under her breath. 

“I thank you for my safe passage.” It is the custom to say that here. Septa Alys had explained that upon her arrival.

She moves to the bench of the Maiden first and lays her head against her hands as she prays for virtue and innocence. Across the room, Laena has gone to the Smith and Elinor to the Warrior. They are praying to each other’s patrons, Rhaelle realizes before turning back to the Maiden. 

“I ask for you to preserve my own innocence and the innocence of all children. May you grant me with love and preserve my own virtue. You are the maiden, who keeps the innocent safe.” Rhaelle closes her eyes to the murmurs of prayer surrounding her. There is an old man by her side, praying for the protection of his granddaughter, a young girl behind her, hoping for romance. Here, she is surrounded by prayer. 

She goes to the Warrior next. “Give courage to those who need it and strength to those that do not know it is necessary. Place them under your protection and defend them with your power.” She thinks of Daeron, who seeks adventure so very much. Give him a quieter strength to compliment his loud courage, she beseeches. A woman with long hair and a baby in her arms asks for her son to be blessed with strength. A man of twenty asks for the chance to prove himself.

“Teach me good judgement, so that I can act in your image.” It is Ormund’s prayer that she hears. His voice is low but not a whisper, it carries across the room. She moves to the statue of the Father and settles at Ormund’s side.

“I ask for you to protect those who cannot protect themselves.” Rhaelle keeps her voice quiet and drops to a whisper as she finishes her prayer, she will not demand attention in prayer. She looks to Ormund and finds that his eyes are on her face already, clear and blue and pondering.

Without speaking, they move together to the Mother. Rhaelle can feel eyes on her. It is an uncomfortable feeling, though she did not feel that with Ormund. She does not mind when Ormund looks at her, she realizes. Perhaps it is the atmosphere of the Sept and the prayer surrounding her, but for the first time Rhaelle thinks she could be happy here. She thinks she could spend decade here and call it home, call him home, thinks she could be the Lady of Storm’s End.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so it’s a little rough around the edges.


End file.
